No One Lives Forever
by katyrayanne
Summary: No one is immortal, not even Harry Potter.


Disclaimer: I don't own it.

No one lives forever.

Only the naive expect to live forever. No one ever does. People go through their whole lives; not caring, not feeling. Walking through day by day in the average numb state. Living, breathing, thinking.

Harry Potter died.

He died slowly, and painfully.

In a battle between light and dark. Good and Bad.

That's what you say. That you're fighting for the Light, you're fighting for good. You're fighting for hope. But... when you're out there. In the battle...

You can't tell the difference between dark and light, good or bad.

Bodies fall infront and behind. Blood splatters the snow covered ground. That familiar deep scarlet color, clashing painfully on the harsh white, dirt and blood, life and death rage in the god forsaken battle field.

Would you notice? 

Would you see?

The dead body of the Boy-Who-Lived, falling slowly, face up, in that terrible snow. His gorgeous emerald eyes slowly losing any hint of life. Darkness engulfing any chance of survival. His body lying on the cold, frost bitten ground, blood seeping from multitudes of deep, long, slits, growing across the length of his slim body. His once deep grey, loosely fit robes, now sliced, revealing his pale, dead skin.

He died.

He died surrounded by hundreds of other bodies.

And no one noticed.

No one specifically killed Harry Potter, no.

It was the combined efforts of every person in that battle, each hex that hit him, each curse. Each and everyone inflicting a common pain into his fragile body. Hitting, mocking him in the worst way. In pain. Pain never lies, it hurts or it doesn't, that's all you know, that's all you feel, as you fight, as you fell.

Harry died, he died, the hero died.

The universe didn't break in half. 

And the rain didn't start to pour.

No one tried to help.

And no one ran to his side to be with him in his last minutes.

No one was there to see as his breathes became more shaken, as his life slowly poured from his wounds. The battle went on, and the world continued to spin.

The famous Harry Potter died all alone. No companions to tell him that everything would be alright. No friends, no family, no hope.  
No one cried for him as he died.

Who would think?

Who would ever guess? 

When a hero dies, the world is supposed to stop. And people are supposed to weep, and everyone should know that now they need to take a moment and honor the death of a...well, of a hero.

But it didn't happen, you'd be surprised really, that the savior died. He really did die.

And people continued to live, all around the world, no one noticed, no one cared.

Sure when they find out, the people think, and the people cried, and they say, _'What a terrible loss! 'The poor boy.' 'He's in a better place...'._

Honestly, they don't care. No matter what they say.

It's not important to them in particular.

He was just one person. Just one person that died along with thousands of others. Others that were more loved. Others with happier lives, and large families. People with strong jobs, and children, and spouses.

They never knew him.

They never _loved_ him.

Others did. Others cried in pain at the site of his dead body.

Friends called out his name among the battle field.

Friends screamed in horror, and wept on shoulders, they fell to the ground, and they try to wake him. They try, they yell until their voices grow hoarse.  
They sob.

He was found, but it was too late. He had no chance, when they fell beside him, he was gone, gone to no one knows where.  
His body was buried, and the world almost cared.   
But life moved on.

So did everyone else.

Some grieved.

Others shrugged.

But, Harry Potter's famously green eyes, so full of life.

So full of hope. 

Would never open again. 

Life is lost. Everyday, another person dies, every minute, every _second_. But, did you ever care? Did you ever _know_?

Death is truly inevitable, it is never seen, it is never loved, it is never looked forward to.

But it comes; it comes for everyone and everything.

Everyone does know that they will die.

But no one really _believes_ it.

Everyone knows it, but no one accepts it.

As life is lost all around you, you never know who is dead is close to it, you never know who you are killing, but you are, that's what you do know, you're _killing._

You might kill your best friend, or your girlfriend, or your brother, and you wouldn't be able to tell, you would probably never know that it you that did it.

That is what war is.

It's ignorance, it's all the millions of years of human evolution coming up to a loss, it's forgetting.

It loosing our intelligence and resorting to instincts.

You have to live in this way; _breathe, live, fight, survive._

(Changed P.O.V.)

God, No one knew.

That's what hurts the most.

He was alone.

Alone as he died. Alone.

No one wants to be alone during the last seconds of their lives.

He was so _young._

It could have been anyone that fell to the ground, looking the mangled, bloody and beaten body that lay in the snow covered ground, hair mussed, face calm and collected. He was barely recognizable.

The ground was cold and damp, dirt and blood.

We all fell to our knees, but it was useless.

It was so _bloody_ pointless.

Then again, I suppose no one actually thought that he _could_ die.

After all that he had survived.

That's the point exactly.

He _had_ survived.

So many times, he had survived.

He should have been dead years ago, he should have been died life times ago. 

But...He never was.

He was invincible.

We all thought it.

We all _knew _it.

We were wrong. 

We were so damn wrong.

He's dead, dead, dead, dead. 

And we are the only ones that truly care.

All the others have lost their hero...They've lost their idol.

They weep for the hero.

Not us.

No, not us.

We weep, yes.

We cry for our friend.

We cry for our brother.

We sob for each other.

The person who created hope in all of our worlds is gone.

The person who was so many different people, in so many different eyes, is gone.

He will never return, he will never come back.

He is never going to run a nervous hand through his short messy locks.

He will never again drum his fingers atop his school desk.

Because, he is dead.

Gone forever and always.

Dead.


End file.
